Farmer

You choose to be a farmer.

"I'm sorry, milord," you say, your voice steady, though it tastes like ash in your mouth. "But I cannot leave my father's farm."

Padreg barely spares you a second glance. "Whatever," he shrugs, turning away, already putting you out of his mind. Whether you join him or not makes no difference to the young noble. His father will always have the coin to hire more men, and Padreg will always find others to follow him.

That same morning, before leaving the village, Padreg has another loud, shameless round of coupling with Nissa. "Yes, milord, yes!" The walls of the tavern do little to hide her cries, nor his grunts of satisfaction. "Come see me at the keep if you end up with a bastard in your belly," Padreg says with a laugh as he tosses her a small bag heavy with copper coins.

As the heir to Lord Addam, Padreg is already promised to a highborn lady of noble blood. Whatever fun he has with tavern girls and chambermaids is just that: fun. He will never marry them. The divide between noble and commoner is too wide, too deeply carved into the bones of the world.

"Thank you, milord," Nissa replies sweetly, her eyes bright with coin and understanding. She grins when he gives her backside a parting squeeze, knowing full well what she is and what she will never be.

Time passes.

Months blur into years.

The fire of your old dreams dims, then dies completely, buried beneath the soil of your father’s land.

You till the earth from morning until dusk, as your father did before you, and his father before him. Blisters harden into calluses. The sun darkens your skin. Your hands grow rough, your back bent from labor. The farm claims you, as it always would.

You marry, as expected. Her name is Qara, the daughter of another peasant. She is no beauty of song or tale, she's stout, her face plain, her hands scarred from work. But she is healthy, strong, and dependable, and you are no great hero either. There are no wild dreams between you, no **** passions. Only shared labor, shared duty, shared survival.

Your life is poor, but manageable.

You eat every day: gruel, hard bread, thin stew, sometimes a bit of salted pork if the gods are kind.

You join your bodies as husband and wife each night, but it is out of obligation, not desire. A ritual as ordinary as planting in spring or harvesting in autumn.

In time, Qara bears you two sons.

You name them Edric and Tomlin, good, honest farm boys.

Two are enough, you decide. Two strong sons to work the fields alongside you, to carry the plow when you grow old. Any more would only stretch your meager harvest thinner.

It is an unremarkable life.

But then again, you are an unremarkable man.

And you accept this.

You accept it because there is no other choice. Because dreams are for nobles, for knights and lords, not for the sons of farmers. You bury your hopes in the furrows of your fields, sowing potatoes where once you sowed ambition.

Yet… sometimes, when the day’s toil is done, and Qara snores softly beside you in the straw, and your sons sleep the deep, dreamless sleep of boys who worked too hard, you find your gaze drifting to the ceiling.

And you wonder.

You wonder, in those quiet, hidden moments: Could you have been more?

Could you have been the hero?

Could you have held the silver sword?

Could you have been the one to slay the beast, to claim the glory, to feel Nissa's kisses upon your skin?

But dawn always comes, and with it, the plow and the shovel.

And you rise, and work, and push the thoughts away.

Ending 5: Unremarkable Farmer